Parents' Evening
by Lolsome-o-sis girl
Summary: ONESHOT. Set during series 1. Stokely Grammar have a parents evening...this is how it goes down. Disclaimer. Read and review!


_**Parents' Evening**_

_**Young Dracula**_

_**K+**_

_**Vlad POV**_

Nobody likes Parents' Evening, do they? It's when the truths come out. Your parents find out that you haven't been wearing your regulation black Stokely Grammar blazer, you haven't handed in a piece of maths homework since September, and you hang out with a gang of sixth formers who have LOVE and HATE scrawled across their knuckles and who carve I HATE SCHOOL into the little round tables in the library with a pair of material scissors.

Well, that's the kind of stuff that most students at Stokely Grammar are worried about. Not me, however. I have a pretty good record when it comes to things like tests, uniform and homework. My friend is sensible, reliable, hard-working...well, okay, maybe not sensible. My teachers like me. I enjoy coming to school and learning new things.

What do I have to be so worried about, I hear you ask?

Where do you want me to start?

I'm not worried that Dad will find out about school. I'm more nervous that school will find out about Dad, about who - and what - we really are.

Parents' Evening? I hate it so much that I bribed my sister, Ingrid, so that she wouldn't mention it to Dad. I hoped that I could get away with it right through secondary school, but Mrs Branagh came round and asked if Dad would like a lift down to the school for the Parents' Evening.

And that was it. My cover was blown, big style.

And, now, they're here, all of them - Ingrid, Dad and Renfield. Absolute nightmare.

I'm here too, watching the whole thing, fascinated and horrified at the same time. Being here is kind of a torture, obviously, but when Miss Harker asked for volunteers to help make the tea and coffee, I volunteered me and Robin for the job, much to his dismay and annoyance.

At least dishing out the tea is one way to keep an eye on things.

I take a deep breath, steady my tea tray, and weave my way through the crowd, handing out odd cups of milky tea and some dark, rock hard flapjacks, baked in Home Economics by an anonymous student this afternoon.

I glide to a halt by Miss Harker's desk.

"Tea?" I ask. She shoots me a wide-eyed glance, but I have no sympathy for her. Dad hasn't started talking yet - the worst is still to come.

"Ah, Vladimir, there you are," Dad says, as he sits in the plastic chair opposite my head teacher.

"Hi, Dad. Bye, Dad," I muttered, scurrying back through the loitering parents with my empty tray. I come across my grandparents - Krone and Atilla - arguing with Mr Mortimer. I'm not entirely sure why - he isn't even one of my teachers.

Back at the tea-urn, Robin is sipping tea from a PTA bone-china cup. He tries to dunk a flapjack, to soften it, and fails. The tea turns into some kind of grey soup, or possibly oatmeal.

"Hey, Vlad," he says. "Want a hand?"

"No, thanks."

"I'd be a good waiter, y'know. Careful. Fast." He sticks out a leg and shows me a huge Rollerblade boot. He tries to execute a fancy turn, slopping tea over his jeans.

"I'm just learning," he explains sheepishly.

"I see..."

"Is your Dad here?" Robin pours himself another cup of tea.

"He's over there somewhere," I say vaguely, as Robin gives a low whistle. Lucy Carter is walking past, wearing something that may or may not have once belonged to a Barbie doll. Utterly terrifying.

"Lucy Carter is H-O-T!" Robin says, completing a perfect figure of eight on his Rollerblades, before crashing, headfirst, into the tea-urn. I roll my eyes. Hot is NOT a word I would use to describe Lucy Carter.

Just as I think that Robin is safely distracted with juggling a pile of custard creams, my grandparents join the end of the queue for Miss Harker.

"Who are THEY?!" Robin gawps, almost dropping his juggling instruments. He begins stuffing them into his mouth instead. "I wonder what poor kid got stuck with them as grandparents, eh, Vlad?" Robin is soon going to find out the exact identity of the "poor kid", unless I take evasive action.

"Actually," I tell him. "They're Lucy Carter's parents."

Robin just about chokes on his custard creams.

"Parents?!" He yelps. "They can't be! They're way too old!" Since Lucy's only just joined Stokely Grammer, she's still a bit of a mystery to all of us.

"Oh...yeah, didn't you know?" I lie. "Last month, Lucy's dad came home and caught her with Martin Mullen from the year above us. He threw him out of the house...literally!"

"Seriously?!" Robin marvels, agog. "I never heard that!"

"Would you broadcast it if you were Lucy?" I ask him. "Or Martin Mullen, for that matter?"

"S'pose not."

"Ah, Branagh." Mr Van Helsing leans across the counter, ignoring me. Well, I'm totally fine with that. "Good to see you helping out at functions like these."

"Can't think of anywhere I'd rather be," Robin mutters.

"Miss Yates was saying to me how much she would love a nice cup of coffee - perhaps you'd take her one?"

Robin lifts the loaded tray, as Van Helsing nods condescendingly. He clearly hasn't spotted the Rollerblades yet.

Robin glides off across the polished floor, the tray balanced on one hand. He makes amazingly good progress at first, but, then, this is Robin Branagh. Disaster is inevitable.

Suddenly, he trips over the side of Mr Perkins' table, falling headlong into the crowd, showering everyone with coffee and flapjacks.

"Oh, dear," says Mr Perkins, as Mrs Branagh buries her head in her hands, as Robin tries to stand again, fails, and crashes back down to the floor. I bite back a smile.

Maybe Parents' Evening isn't SO bad after all...


End file.
